Plaster on the Wall of Thoughts (12th Part)
Sushanta
Paul·Tuesday, March 7, 2017·1 minute
Thought: Seventy-eight.
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Kind treatment or gentle words don’t appeal to us; we have a deep love for being kicked. We, the human race, are essentially a kick-loving species. No other species in the animal kingdom can be found with such a trait. We cannot tolerate love. In our hunger for a kick, we wander from door to door—some of us knowingly, some unknowingly. Some admit it openly, others don’t. Whatever we may or may not admit, we drop everything and run frantically after kicks. If someone who truly loves us falls ill and ends up in the hospital, it hardly matters to us. But if a stray dog near the garbage heap outside the house of someone whose kicks we crave, someone with whom our interests are entangled, suddenly lets out a helpless yelp, our hearts overflow with brotherly love. The better something is, the more repugnant it becomes; the worse it is, the more delectable!—we live by this peculiar principle. We think: well, let me take a kick or two, but isn’t this kick-filled, carefree life beautiful! When someone close speaks the truth, we say, “You talk too much!” But when someone tied to our interests speaks falsely, we say, “You’ve spoken the absolute truth!” Life is such a difficult place where sincere slaps command a higher price than sincere love. The strange thing is, some people have more self-respect than necessary, while others don’t even understand what self-respect means. Even when our close ones belong to the first type, in our minds we drag them down to the second type, or force them to descend. And they do descend! What else can they do? They love us, after all! Out of love’s obligation, they may not say anything openly, but their hearts burn nonetheless.
I often think that if I were a person of interest rather than a close person to the one I want near me, I would surely have them close. When I lie in bed at night, eyes closed, thinking about all this, it occurs to me: ah, if only God would send someone to me, even for a moment, whom I could embrace and cry with, and all my pain would disappear! In this cruel world, we need someone to hold and weep with, just to feel lighter. What a strange, shameless human birth this is! The one who doesn’t want me at all—I am tormented by their pain! Does any of this make sense?
Actually, no one in this world has someone they can merge with their heart to diminish pain or at least forget it. We mistakenly think such a person exists. Surely they’re hiding somewhere; we just can’t see them. When the time comes, that person will appear and surprise us… In truth, all this is illusion, mere delusion. It’s impossible for such a person to exist in this world. Even if they do exist, perhaps they’re inhabitants of some other world, a world we’ll never encounter again in this lifetime.
Thought: Seventy-nine.
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That was all there was to say. Even that small bit couldn’t be written and sent. When I tried to write, my fingers simply wouldn’t move, the thread of words kept spinning round and round in my head, tangling into knots somewhere unknown. Even if I managed to write something, it would transform into meaningless letters before my eyes, wanting to take some unfamiliar path, not going where the words were meant to go but measuring other roads instead. The journey of words is so mysterious, indefinable, strange. How many times I wrote with the intention to send, but it never reached her inbox. Sometimes I would spend three days patiently gathering and arranging thoughts, only to destroy them again. A gentle touch on the send button—how impossibly difficult it becomes at times! Why can’t the one I’m thinking about know my thoughts? Yet someone who doesn’t think of her at all, but performs such skillful acting as if going mad for her—she sits there giving both her precious time and heart to him. If Facebook had a telepathy feature, how wonderful that would be! Mr. Zuckerberg, please consider this matter. If such a thing existed, shy people like me would be greatly saved. Some broken relationships that broke before they could even be mended would be saved. So many relationships are built with the certainty of breaking. And the relationship that would only break with death—forget about building it, those two people never even get to know each other’s thoughts. What pain! What pain! . . . . . . .
Those fragmentary hellos and hi’s that could have easily become something more—I could never send them to her. Never. Day after day, I kept saying hi and hello only to myself. Tell me, is she like me too? I mean, in the group of shy ones? Why did she become like this? And if she did, why did she think of me—someone who, like her, sits with the ego of “why should I speak first,” waiting in some intense anticipation, seeking relief from exhaustion through long, pointless Facebook statuses? How easy it is to do Facebook instead of facing life! I keep doing this easy thing like everyone else, and so I keep getting fooled. A life confined to Facebook becomes helpless the moment it leaves Facebook and comes outside. The horses of emotion, after galloping and shaking Facebook’s walls, grow tired and fall asleep there, unable to run in life’s real field anymore. Life is life, after all. Not cinema. Not poetry. Not a novel. That wishful thinking of writers gives nothing even to the writer. Go and check! The horses of stories only fly in the sky within stories. Life’s horse has no wings; it must run on its feet alone. Those feet get wounded, those feet suffer from fatigue, those feet often tell their master: I can’t go on. Why did she assume that one day the “right thing” would happen just right? How many things happen here if we don’t make them happen? Does what’s right happen? Or is what happens right? Who can give the proper answer to this? How much does she deserve of what she’s gotten? Most of it she earned, didn’t she? So this separation too is her achievement. And mine as well. Alas! The joy of union never came, yet how blue I remain in the pain of separation!
Thought: Eighty.
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It’s not always true that doing something wonderful requires a great deal of time.
John Denver took exactly ten minutes to write “You Fill Up My Senses” for his wife Annie. The gentleman was skiing, and in a brief pause, he penned this most beloved song.
Perhaps nursing hurt feelings over someone—or several someones—who had broken their word, Sunil Gangopadhyay took 15-20 minutes to write “Keu Kotha Rakheni” (No One Kept Their Word). A gentleman had come seeking a poem for publication, and the poet seated him in the drawing room, saying, “Please sit for a moment, I’ll just fetch the poem.” Then he fled to the inner room and wrote what would become this magnificent poem, later recited countless times. Sunil had been putting the poor fellow off for ages with promises of “I’ll give you the poem, I will.” One day the gentleman showed up unannounced at Sunil’s house. What could be done? Sunil had to say, “Yes, it’s written. Let me go inside and bring it.” The power to validate that small lie by emerging moments later with a fresh, piping-hot poem—Sunil possessed that gift.
To create something beautiful, emotion matters more than effort or intelligence. Knowing how to accomplish much in little time is a grand art indeed. So laziness bears no fault. All the fault lies in failing to do the work. Whether I am lazy or industrious—no one will ever keep track of that. People will only see whether I managed to get the job done.
So on holidays, I remain on holiday. Many people offer all sorts of clever advice for self-improvement. Like the wisdom of going to the gym. And many other such things. Like most advice, I listen with one ear and let it flow merrily out the other. What need is there, dear fellow, to surrender oneself so completely to the pursuit of heroic physical form? What great soul has ever become worthy of morning remembrance by spending hours upon hours at the gym? Which true hero of the world has had to become a gym-goer to achieve heroism? By any measure, I have never found myself living a less healthy, robust life than any gym maniac! I’ve roamed bookshop to bookshop for hours, carrying 20-30 kilos of books. I’ve climbed a thousand steps to reach the Batu Caves ahead of everyone else, taken less time than anyone in my group to reach Boga Lake. When everyone sits gasping with tongues hanging out, I’m wandering around taking in the surroundings. Real stamina lies in the mind, not in muscle. Human capacity and incapacity for exertion—both are fundamentally mental. Will going to the gym make one the most handsome man in the world? What’s the point of wasting precious time trying to appear beautiful to those stupid enough to judge beauty by muscle definition? So much work remains in this life! The pressure I’d put on my body—if I directed that same pressure to my brain, it would enhance my capacity for thought and the beauty of my mind. I haven’t seen many intellectuals with muscular physiques.
Good heavens, I’m already beautiful! The lack of beauty makes people far less ugly than the lack of awareness of one’s own beauty. Need I manufacture more excuses? I have such an arsenal of ready-made excuses! Hahahaha…………..
To write poetry, one doesn’t necessarily need Shantiniketan. What one needs is substance in the head. Sitting in a cottage nestled against the serene hills, a highly educated person began writing poetry like this—”My forehead drowned in the waters of two eyes…” Then he started pondering: forehead soaked in eye-water! How bizarre! Yet he didn’t want to change that line either; what an extraordinary thought his supremely fertile mind had produced! What to do, what to do—after much deliberation, he finally wrote the second line: “My two feet were then tied to the branches of a pomegranate tree…” Imagine the predicament!
Speaking of this lengthy piece itself! Where I began writing this, how, under what circumstances—it wouldn’t be proper to share those details. So I couldn’t. But that doesn’t mean one can’t begin writing that way!
On Facebook, everyone gives the most refined possible answer to “What’s on your mind?” Always expressing sincere feelings can also invite trouble. Just try telling a beautiful woman your real feelings and see what happens! I often feel tempted to take the noble vow of truth-telling and write in my status: “Really want to kiss so-and-so…”
Friends, I’ve rambled quite pointlessly and absurdly. Happy moments! Blessed idleness. May everyone have beautiful times. No beautiful moment can be lived twice, no most passionate kiss can be savored twice. No beautiful act can be performed the same way twice. Even if Shah Rukh Khan says “K…k…k…Kiran…” again, whatever else may happen, it can never be quite like the movie ‘Darr’ again. Everything beautiful is unique.
Reflection: Eighty-one.
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Is it possible to gaze steadily at someone who is extraordinarily beautiful? I looked, kept looking, thinking—if she somehow catches on to this, what a disaster that would be! And even if she doesn’t catch on, how can one keep staring while constantly anxious about being “caught”? Such gazing is only possible in movies. The hero stares at the heroine, or the heroine at the hero, eyes unblinking, not even an eyelash fluttering, with background music playing… lalalalalalala… lalalalalalala… lalalalalalala… lalalalalalala… lalalalalalala… lalalalalalala… laaaaaaa… lalalalalaaaaaaa… (This music, by the way, is from a Hindi movie. Can you guess which one?) Most people who are very beautiful can gaze confidently at others, can speak with ease. Beautiful shy people are few in number. And when such beautiful people look at you, it feels somehow uncomfortable, makes you feel even more unattractive, makes you nervous. I’m naturally the withdrawn type who prefers to keep myself hidden; when I’m in front of people, I literally shrink, and if I encounter someone extraordinarily beautiful, I feel like my head will start spinning and I’ll collapse. The other day, I met such a ravishing beauty. What an exquisite smile, what a gaze, what graceful form. Looking at her made me want to believe she was stealing glances at me. The more I looked, the more I felt like an ugly creature wandering about in trees. I began to think she was considering me somewhat monkey-like in appearance. Such blinding beauty is truly unbearable!! I looked once and didn’t dare look a second time. Whoever she was smiling at, I felt that person was a fool, and I would have found peace if I could have shoved them aside. With my bewildered expression, I sat stammering through conversations with others. Later I learned she was my friend’s sister and, for some unknown reason, apparently a great admirer of mine. (Hearing this made me want to believe I really was someone whose non-admiration would be a grave sin!… OMK! O Mor Khoda!! Someone save me from myself!!) I was already deeply uncomfortable because she kept looking at me the way children look at animals in a zoo, and hearing all this made me start sweating even in that winter cold. Such a beautiful girl actually knows me? Was my human existence already so meaningful before, or did it suddenly become meaningful today? I often dream that all the world’s blazing beauties are my admirers! Could my dreams actually be coming true? Is this even possible?
I didn’t speak a word to her—I couldn’t muster the courage.
As she was leaving…
She folded her hands and said, “Dada, I’m leaving. Namaste.”
(Only then did I notice the vermillion in her hair parting, the conch shell bangles on her wrists. Seeing this made me want to break down and weep. Alas! The one I could never offer shelter to, I had been indulging in my mind with such bliss! Does God have no mercy for helpless young men like me?)
Suddenly I blurted out, “Walaikum assalam.”
Hearing this, she laughed softly, covered her face with her magenta full-sleeved shirt, and like Satyajit’s Charulata, walked away.
What did she say, and what did I reply in response—it took quite a while to understand. In anger, sorrow, and frustration, I kept thinking over and over: I’m the world’s number one fool! Why didn’t I die before saying “Wa alaykum”? Oh God! If you’d made me a little smarter, would a horse lay one more egg? Oh Earth! Split in two, I’m climbing a tree!
Thought: Eighty-two.
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On duty at the airport. There were no flights then. The last one was at twelve, the next at three.
I’m watching Satyajit’s ‘Charulata,’ adapted from Rabindranath’s ‘Nastanirh.’ A two-hour film.
I love having crushes on Bengali women. That’s why I keep returning to old Bengali films. You can tell a person’s taste by how they fall in love. I’m a person of classical taste, hence the constant return to the old. I have crushes quite frequently. (The last time I had a crush was on the heroine of ‘Ballad of a Soldier.’)
Midway through, I got irritated and stopped watching Suchitra’s films. Suchitra is a terribly dangerous addiction. She gets so lodged in your head that she won’t let you love anyone else.
However, no other Bengali film character has ever held me so spellbound as Charulata. After watching this film, I sought out and watched all of Madhabi’s movies.
My subconscious mind shelters certain characters. Sunil’s Margaret, Mujtaba’s Shabnam, Satyajit’s Charulata, my Shatabdi (I don’t know anyone by this name. Yet I’m impossibly fond of the name. Why do I love it? I don’t know that either. Just as I find joy imagining a woman, I find peace calling someone Shatabdi. What’s the explanation for this? Or is this simply nature’s cruel, mysterious game?). They all surround me. Sometimes I watch ‘Charulata’ to feed my subconscious mind something and give it false victories. Even if I didn’t get her, what’s wrong with finding happiness in the illusion of having her?
While watching ‘Charulata,’ I love to envy Soumitra. I was doing that very thing that day. That’s not the point. The awful thing is—I’m watching Charulata; loving Charulata, feeling her, sketching her in my mind again and again, feeling good, laughing softly now and then—just at that moment, someone’s phone in the next room started playing: “Lungi dance lungi dance lungi dance lungi dance…”
Ever since that reached my ears—there’s Charulata-magic in front with her telescope, while in my head plays: “lungi dance lungi dance lungi dance lungi dance…”
Ugh! Even the magnificent Charulata loses to a trivial lungi! Am I like this? Is this me?! Despicable! Utterly despicable! What’s happened to me? I can’t recognize myself! I stopped watching the film!! I won’t let Charulata lose to a lungi. My crush cannot be defeated by a lungi…cannot…cannot…! Absolutely not!!
Thought: Eighty-three.
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(This is a pre-wedding (=trouble-brewing) piece of writing.)
There’s an age for boys when, after seeing a girl on Facebook and knowing for certain that they won’t like her when they meet face-to-face, they still have to agree to see a prospective bride just to make their mother happy. When such a proposal comes home, if I refuse to meet the girl in person, I get scolded at home; the girl’s family thinks our family is arrogant; or the well-meaning person who ‘kindly’ sent the proposal becomes disappointed, displeased, and annoyed. Then, just to keep them happy, I have to agree to go see the girl—with the fear that if they get angry, they might never bring another match again!
It feels terrible to say ‘no’ after meeting a girl. For two reasons. One: Having been refused in a couple of places myself, I know from experience what it feels like to hear ‘no.’ Two: I imagine that if I had a younger sister, what a devastating effect such a ‘no’ from a boy would have on her or our family. It diminishes the girl’s self-confidence; some even begin to think of themselves as unworthy or unattractive. I deeply dislike doing anything that would diminish someone’s self-confidence.
I’ve seen many girls who are in love but are too afraid to tell their families. So even if I like a girl after seeing her on Facebook, I inquire whether she’s single or engaged. I have neither the time for envy nor for coveting another’s beloved. I’ve turned down several girls’ guardians with a simple ‘no’ after making these inquiries. They probably think I have some problem. Let them think what they will! Nothing can be done about it. Perhaps the boy is still unemployed but will do well someday, and then they’ll marry—the girl is waiting for that moment. He may not have a job, but at least he has love. If even that is lost, what else would she have left to live for? For someone who has no job, no work, but has a girlfriend—that love is his only occupation. If that work too disappears, he’ll become the most unemployed of the unemployed. What will the poor soul live on then? Never mind the parents’ sorrow—just by looking into his beloved’s face, he can wait smilingly for a job, age after age! I want all other beings in the world to be happy and find well-being, whether I do or not. Every beautiful girl is someone else’s girlfriend or ex-girlfriend. I have no objection to exes, but until someone becomes an ex, I’m in favor of giving them time to become an ex. I’ve learned at great cost from life that the punishment for not pursuing a beautiful girl while there’s still time, or for sitting around being aloof when such a person shows interest, is terrible.
I generally don’t meet girls formally for marriage prospects very often. In the past year, whether by my own choice, to spare someone’s feelings and maintain their dignity, or at family’s request, I’ve formally met six girls. My parents have reached the age where they see daughters-in-law everywhere. In a couple of days, no one will even agree to meet me; meaning, I’m about to lose even my last chance at being refused—I’ve reached the age where I hear such talk constantly and, despite my profound reluctance, find myself almost wanting to believe it. This is the age for emptying one’s wallet. This is not the age for unnecessarily fattening restaurant owners’ wallets. This is the age when I suddenly discover, with a grief-heavy heart, that I’m the eldest in the neighborhood. This is the age that, after the age of love has ended and the age of marriage is nearly over, begins the age of love anew—the age of wanting to fall in love again. This is the age of hearing sweet, endearing calls of “Uncle” from the adorable children of girls who once appealed to me, but to whom I never confessed due to ego problems or shyness. This is the age for cursing the self-imposed romantic indifference of my younger years. This is the age of trying to force oneself to develop the capacity for affection.
Age is advancing. Let it advance! But why is despair growing alongside it? Can anyone tell me?
Alas, thirty! After thirty, no one gives you a job! After thirty, no one gives you their heart!
In these lean times, what a tremendous asset a girlfriend is—only those who’ve suffered know this.
Reflection: Eighty-four.
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(In this piece, I had given Facebook the name: Reflection Wall.)
I have a habit: whatever doesn’t concern me or doesn’t draw me in, I show no interest in whatsoever—I don’t even try to learn about it. Take, for instance, politics, other people’s personal affairs, and such things.
I’m tremendously happy with such limitations of thought, because I’ve seen that I don’t have time to do even the things I love. Life’s two greatest problems are: life is short, and there’s only one of it. A turtle lives for 300 years! And us? We just drop dead in a flash! Does that make any sense? What on earth is God thinking! If I sit around with things I don’t need to know, when will I learn what I actually want to know?
I find great comfort in the thought that I don’t need to know everything. It feels peaceful—so peaceful. The fewer subjects I have to rack my brains over, the greater the peace! Take this, for instance: even with a first-class certificate in Computer Science and Engineering tucked under my arm, I don’t know how to become a good computer engineer (if I did, I could have become one myself!). I don’t know the tricks of landing a bank job, don’t know how to get private sector work, don’t know how to secure non-cadre positions. Apart from my own job, I haven’t the slightest notion about any other profession in the world. To earn my bread and survive, I first tried business. Now I work a job. The job I do—I’ve never sat for the exam of any other job. Work is simply an obligation, something you do out of a sense of duty to yourself and your family. I’m doing this job only because I lack the desire, means, and ability to do something better. I don’t want anyone to have the chance to call me “unemployed.” Since I harbor no great love affair with employment, I’ve never felt inclined to hunt for other jobs. I consider this my supreme good fortune! With limited brains to begin with, at least I don’t have to spend much mental energy on things that demand excessive intelligence. Ah! What peace!!
I cannot tolerate hypocrisy, nor do I practice it myself. When someone asks me about something I don’t know, I say “sorry” without a moment’s hesitation: I don’t know. This makes me feel light! But the problem is, most people want to hear some answer to their questions, even if it’s wrong. Meanwhile, I never speak about things I don’t know. Just because someone asks expectantly doesn’t mean they can’t be turned away! Every person should have the honesty to say “I can’t do it”! When someone gets disappointed after asking me about other jobs, they either behave rudely or think I’m putting on airs.
You’ve come to believe that so-and-so is doing well. Therefore, you’ve simply assumed you’ll get ready-made information about all good opportunities from them! You keep such wisdom in your head—can’t you also keep a little wisdom about not thinking that way? For me, whatever “doing well” might mean, it’s certainly never about jobs. A job, by definition, is something painful. There’s nothing noble or wonderful about employment. A job is simply a necessity. And it’s such a necessity that when it’s not met, all other needs become meaningless.
Look, why don’t you send Bill Gates an email asking about the rice and lentil trade! You won’t even get a reply! At least I politely express my inability and show you who might help with your work! Am I not more courteous than Bill Gates, tell me? Hahaha… Welcome to my Mukhboi Deyal (Don’t you like the name? Alright then, I’ve changed it to Bhabhonadeyal. Better now?)
Why did all this come up? This morning someone called asking for tips on how to do well in bank written exams. When I politely said “I have no idea about this,” they gave me a lecture and hung up. Damn public! They look for free labor in everything except their own weddings!!